


Five Times Crowley Threw A Wrench In The Ineffable Plan (And Saved  A Lot Of People In The Process) + One Time Aziraphale Helped

by Hedgehog-o-Brien (Roshwen)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Fic, And Wily, Crowley is very Evil, Fast and Loose through History, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Pity Aziraphale does not seem to be convinced, Twarthing the Ineffable Plan isn't so bad if you can save people at the same time, soft!Crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-05-15 13:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19296682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Hedgehog-o-Brien
Summary: Inspired bythis Tumblr post.Crowley is being his very Evil and Wily Serpent Self, and as such he is duly doing everything in his power to thwart the Almighty. And isn't it just weird how his thwarting is turning out to have some very beneficial side effects?Aziraphale watches, bemused but not saying anything. Until finally, he has to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter might not make a lot of sense if you are not familiar with the Biblical story of the deception of the Gibeonites. You can find that in Joshua 9, or just [here](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Joshua+9&version=NIV).

In the middle of the desert, some kind of assembly was taking place.

Or to be a little more correct, one assembly had already taken place, which was exactly why the second one was happening right now.

Or, to be a little more _clear:_ an army had assembled and put up its tents near the bank of the river Jordan, which was why they were now gathered in an assembly and listening to a group of people who _also_ did not live in this land, although their purpose in coming here was slightly different from the first assembly’s own.

It was the exact opposite, in fact.

‘We’ve come here,’ their leader declared, turning around to address all the grim and silent faces watching his little band, ‘from _very_ far away, to make peace with you. For we have heard what you have done in Jericho, and we have heard what you have done in Ai and we are here to submit ourselves to you, lest our cities suffer a similar fate.’

Behind him, his band of travelers shuffled their feet as they waited. They certainly looked like they had traveled far: their sandals were all but worn through. Their clothes were grey with sand and dust, they were sweaty and filthy and had obviously not seen a bath in weeks. Even their supply packs looked like they could disintegrate at any moment, with cracks in the leather water skins and holes in their bread bags through which the crumbs were falling freely.

As the silence dragged on, their leader smiled, the kind of worried, desperate smile a mouse with a tiny ‘Go Vegan!’ sign might give a cat. He raked a hand through his long red hair and narrowed his curiously light eyes, shielding them against the sun with his hand. ‘Well? Who speaks for you?’

From the opposite side, a man stepped out of the crowd. He was short and stocky, with dark hair, dark eyes and a dark expression. In short, the kind of man you would expect when you think of a people that has lived in the desert for half a century.

‘Who are you?’ A harsh question in a harsh voice. ‘And where exactly do you come from?’

The red-headed leader turned around. The spokesman, whose name was Joshua, glared at him. ‘Well? We cannot make peace with you if we don’t know who you are. What is to say you don’t live a mere day’s travel away? Tell me who you are, and we will discuss a peace treaty if we can.’

‘My name is Caw,’ the leader said. ‘And we have come from _very_ far away because we have heard of the great things your god has done for you, the people of Israel. We heard what he has done to Egypt, and to the kings east of the river; and our leaders commanded us to seek your friendship and to broker peace with you before your god would turn you against us.’

‘Caw,’ Joshua said. ‘That is not a common name around here.’

The man named Caw smiled, a little more surely now. ‘We have traveled far, my lord. Look, this bread. It was fresh when we set out, and there’s nothing but dried out crumbs left now. These wine skins? Brand new, and they are cracked and leaking through with wear. Uri, show my lord your sandals?’

The youngest traveler, a boy of barely eighteen years old, stepped forward and lifted an obedient foot that was covered in grime and blisters.

‘There’s a good lad, my lord, look. He’s been walking for days, all but barefoot, because we are desperate.’ Caw’s voice took on a pleading edge. ‘We do not want to fight you, my lord, for we would surely lose. We know you have a powerful god on your side, more powerful than all the Egyptian pantheon and our own gods would never be able to withstand such force. We are willing to surrender ourselves to you, and to your god, if you promise to spare us and our cities.’

Joshua’s frown got even deeper. Ravines were etching themselves into his forehead as he contemplated the grimy, dusty group before him.

‘Let me see that bread again?’

The next hour or so was spent with the travelers surrendering themselves to the scrutiny of the assembled host. Hems were fingered, frays were inspected. Bread was tasted and summarily spat out again because it truly was staler than the air in a desert tent. Water skins were held up to the sun and inspected, though for what nobody seemed to know.

And the man named Caw talked and answered questions and smiled and talked again and answered even more questions until he felt well and truly sick of it and even his sunny smile started to wear as thin as the soles of Uri’s sandals.

(It must be mentioned at this point, that there was another stranger in the midst of the Israelites. A man dressed in impeccable white robes, which, in the desert sand, was a miracle in itself. His hair was white and his eyes were pale and he was watching the proceedings with a curious tilt of the head. But he did not enter the discussion and he did not speak.

Although he did raise an eyebrow at the man who called himself Caw, when he caught his eye. Caw did not respond, or even acknowledge the white-haired man, although he did turn around fairly quickly and made sure to keep out of his line of sight after that.)

Finally, when the sun was all but done with the day, the man named Joshua stepped forward again. ‘My lord Caw, I think we are satisfied with your testimonies and we are happy to discuss the terms of a peace agreement with you.’

Caw grinned, a bright, relieved and surprisingly sharp-toothed grin. ‘ _Wonderful.’_

\---

‘You know they’ll find out.’

‘Of course they will.’

‘And it’s not going to be pretty.’

‘Probably not.’

‘ _Caw?’_

‘Yeah, I know. Crawly’s not… ‘s not me. I’m still figuring it out, it’ll come to me in the next century or so. Also, just admit that I oh so brilliantly put a spoke in the Ineffable Plan and there’s nothing She can do about it now.’

‘Hmm.’

‘What? Say _that was brilliant of you, you wily serpent. You have surely bested me this time.’_

‘Hmm.’

‘You’re no fun, angel.’

 ‘I know. Also.’

‘Also what?’

‘Also, in the course of _brilliantly and wily-ly_ thwarting the Ineffable Plan, you seemed to have saved three entire cities from imminent destruction. Saving _thousands_ of lives, Crawly.’

‘Wily-ly isn’t a word, angel.’

‘I know. Crawly?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Well played.’

‘Shut up.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 1431, Rouen
> 
> In the old market square of Rouen, France, a fire was burning.

_May 1431, Rouen_

In the old market square of Rouen, France, a fire was burning.

It had been burning merrily away for a good fifteen minutes now, and no one in the crowd of onlookers, over a thousand people at least, all crammed into the square like fish in a barrel, made any effort to put it out. That would rather defeat the purpose of this particular fire.

You see, this wasn’t just any old, random fire, the kind that burns in the hearth and warms you up after a chilly day, or the kind that you gather around at night and tell stories at, or the kind that grows out of control and burns down houses and palaces and cathedrals with equal fervor. No. This was a fire that was set to punish and to strike fear and awe in the hearts of everyone who watched. And, with any luck, this fire, the physical one, would also ignite a more, let’s say, _spiritual_ fire in the hearts of the onlookers, which they then could use to go and set physical fires again to the houses and cities of others.

In short, this fire was set to burn a heretic.

A nineteen year old French heretic who had done nothing wrong but claim visions of archangels and wearing men’s clothes.

The people in the square watched in silence as the yellow and red and orange flames danced, up and up, higher and higher, the only sound the crackling of the straw and tinder around the stake. At first, there had been pleading from the girl they tied there; praying, even an attempt at singing hymns before the smoke got into her throat.

Now, there was just quiet. Even the two clergy who had stood closest to the pyre in a belated effort to offer the support of the church had backed away and watched, their faces carefully blank. The dark figure surrounded by flame had gone still some time ago and it would not be long before the pails of water lined up in front of the crowd would be put to use.

And at the very edge of the crowd, a man in white watched it all happen, as he was told to do.

He had been there for all of it: he had watched the cart with the girl enter the square, the crowd in front of the oxen parting like the Red Sea oh so long ago (he had witnessed that as well and he had to admit the analogy was rather apt which was why he did not mind using it as much as he probably should have). He had watched the girl climb out of the cart and being led to her pyre with remarkable composure. He had watched one of the clergy take her last confession and he had watched the first torch be lowered into the dry kindling until it caught.

He had stood by and watched then, as a moment of confusion happened. The world seemed to stop for a fraction of a second, a slight jolt in the moment when _then_ moves on to become _now,_ although no one else seemed to have noticed. But the man in white blinked, and frowned, and tilted his head and started scanning the crowd as unobtrusively as he could.

It took him some time. The sun was shining bright and the fire set the air even more alight until there was a haze over the crowd, making it difficult to make out any individual faces. It was a mob, faceless and nameless as there had been so many and there would be so many more; but at last, the man in white found what he was looking for.

A flash of red hair, all the way across the square. At the very back of the crowd, standing a bit taller than the people surrounding him, which meant the man in white could see clearly the pair of darkened spectacles he wore.

The man in white almost, _almost_ smiled. There certainly was a little sagging in his shoulders, a hint of easing in his back and as he set off, making slow progress around the mass of people, one could almost hear him mutter: ‘I _knew_ it, you serpent, I _knew_ it.’

\---

Unfortunately, he loses them before he makes it to the end of the square. But fortunately, now that he knows the demon is here, it does not take Aziraphale too long to find him again. He just heads for the smallest, dingiest tavern he can find, the kind with a hundred shadowed corners where the wine is cheap and the beer is even worse, and he finds them right in the far corner, sitting at a rickety table and both glaring daggers at the world at large.

The girl is smaller than he thought she would be. Slim, with dark hair and darker eyes, not particularly pretty. Plain. Slightly singed around the edges, but otherwise unremarkable in any way. Which, Aziraphale supposes, will be precisely her salvation from now on.

She is also exuding a deep, dark rage that he feels all the way from the door. which, he supposes, is only fair.

Then Crowley spots him, sticking out in the gloom in his white clothing like a flaming torch. He shoots up, crossing the tiny space in two long strides. ‘Angel, _please_ don’t tell me you’re the one who put to this or I _sssswear_ to both Upstairs and Downstairs…’

‘I didn’t.’ Calmly, Aziraphale wipes the spittle from his cheeks. Crowley is _very_ furious, his teeth growing long and sharp like a snake’s in the way they only do when he’s inches away from losing it altogether. ‘Crowley, I promise. I had nothing to do with all of this, it was all Michael. He thought it’d be…’

‘ _Insssspiring,’_ Crowley spits. ‘Yes, I know. She’s been telling me a very interesting story. About angels coming to talk to her and telling her to pick up the sword and kick some English arse. At _fourteen,_ Angel. She was _fourteen_ and your lot…’

He stops, teeth clicking together as he stares at Aziraphale, daring him to say something about ineffability. But all Aziraphale does is stare back for a moment before he gives a brief shake of his head.

There’s a moment of quiet. But when you’ve known each other for over five millennia, a lot can be said in just a few beats of silence.

Crowley relaxes, his teeth shrinking and becoming his regular human canines again. ‘Alright. You want to join us then? I have to warn you, she doesn’t take too kindly to your lot at the moment.’

Behind him, Joan of Arc, the maid of Orleans, has produced a knife from somewhere and is now using it to slowly and methodically demolishing the candle stub that had been trying its best to lighten up the gloomy interior of the inn. The poor thing does not stand a chance and soon, the table and floor are littered with pale strips of wax.

The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth twitches up into something that is almost a smile again. ‘Some other time, perhaps,’ he mutters. ‘I do not think I should blame her for being wary, and I would not want to put her through any more, ah, unpleasantness. Or be seen with you, of course,’ he adds almost as an afterthought.

‘Of course,’ Crowley mimicks, but without any real heat behind it. ‘Well. See you around then, Angel.’

‘Take care of her, Crowley.’

With that, and an aborted attempt to wave at Joan, who had at that point conquered the candle and had just begun looking for another victim, Aziraphale leaves the inn. He walks back to the market square, where over a thousand people are still milling together, about to put their faith, religious fervor and battle cries into nothing more than a lie.

He can feel it. The pure, powerful force of belief, building and expanding like a cloud, like smoke, thick and heavy and sweltering all over town.

All based on nothing.

That will give Head Office Upstairs quite the headache, Aziraphale is sure of it. It will probably earn Crowley another commendation, too.

But that is not the reason the angel is smiling, broadly grinning even, blue eyes bright as the sun as he makes his way out of Rouen and back down to Paris.

 


End file.
